An Exercise In International Relations
by Adele Elisabeth
Summary: Former Captain Gautier Rochefort thinks things can't possibly get any worse after being kidnapped by pirates. Poor darling. So naive.
1. A Very Bad Day Indeed

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[disclaimer: I do not own Captain Rochefort and _Three Musketeers_, nor do I own Commodore Norrington and _Pirates of the Caribbean_. I'll put 'em back all nice and neat, I promise.**]**

Author's Note: Well, clearly this is AU…I've fudged timelines a weedle bit (cough_acenturyapart_cough) to get Rochefort and Norrington in the right place, also, Rochefort is very definitely _not dead_. Why is he not dead? Why did the musketeers not succeed in killing him? Clearly he escaped. Why oh why did they not hunt him down? Who the hell knows and who the hell cares? Also, Gautier means 'soldier' (I think), and I had fun finding the name, so if somebody tells me he's actually got a canon first name, I shall be most displeased. 

Credit where credit's due, it wasn't me that came up with Porthos being Gillette's cousin, it was one of the fine ladies over at the NDL, I'm pretty sure Angharad but my memory is all terrible and stuff. And Zath C is responsible for the title, because I got stuck. (Look out for the parody of this fic, titled "Of Frogs And Roast Beef", title given to me by the lovely Annunwilwarin of FF.net) 

***

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An Exercise In International Relations

By Adele Elisabeth

Chapter One: A Very Bad Day, Indeed

Summary: Former Captain Gautier Rochefort thinks things can't possibly get any worse after being kidnapped by pirates. 

Poor darling. So naïve. 

*** 

Gautier Rochefort, formerly the Captain of the Cardinal's personal guard, had never been so insulted in his life. (He was willing to overlook the 'cheese' comment in favour of this) 

He had been kidnapped. By _pirates_. 

That wasn't all, though, oh _no_, that wasn't all. Things just got better and better. _Why_ was Rochefort currently sat seething in the brig of some _stinking_ pirate ship? 

They had a grudge against 'Porthos the Pirate', and had evidently mistaken him for either Aramis or Athos. As he was neither a godly man nor a drunkard with a taste for murderous whores…

He was singularly unimpressed, and imagined the godforsaken trio was having quite a laugh at his expense. (He was correct in this presumption) 

Things could not possibly get any worse. 

(In _this_ assumption, however, he was sadly mistaken) 

***

Commodore James A. Norrington was not having a good day. The near-rotted away bodies of the pirates that swung on the way into Port Royal had been replaced with considerably fresher ones -- much to the pirates' brief chagrin -- which was…not entirely bad, they had secured the aforementioned pirates' ship (and all of it's contents)…

However. There was an irate Frenchman pacing up and down in front of his desk, who had been cursing in his native tongue for the last…five, ten minutes…and if he judged by the grudgingly admiring expression on Lieutenant Gillette's face, the thrice-damned pillock hadn't repeated himself _once_. 

He had, before he got distracted (perhaps it was the shiny, shiny gold on Norrington's uniform) and began to rant, introduced himself curtly as Captain Rochefort -- then corrected himself with haughty dignity, "Monsieur Gautier Rochefort". Norrington vaguely recalled hearing of the man, though he couldn't quite remember why. 

"...I espoir qu'ils pourrissent dans enfer."

When it was obvious that he had finished his tirade, Norrington coughed delicately. "As fascinating as that was, would you care to enlighten us as to--" 

Rochefort cut him off, his words very _controlled_, and his English accented. "I was taken hostage due to a mistaken identity." He gave a brief, wintry smile. "'Porthos the Pirate' has made himself many enemies." 

__

And you among them, from that look, Norrington thought, but tactfully did not say. "Porthos the Pirate?" 

"He would be very disappointed that you have not heard of him, Commodore. He is among the King's guard, and has delusions of grandeur." Rochefort's lip curled slightly as he spoke. "A particularly blind few of his enemies mistook me for his friend." 

From Gillette's expression -- 'hmm, out the window or fall on my sword?' -- _he_ had heard of the man in question. Norrington made a mental note to ask him about it later. 

***

He would never be quite sure how he had ended up taking home a stray, sulky, Frenchman. (Who didn't seem any more pleased with the arrangement than he was, and muttered things about 'l'anglais' that he was sure he didn't want to hear translated) 

Porthos, as it turned out, was Gillette's cousin, and apparently due in Port Royal with a friend of his one month from yesterday. Rochefort had been drinking steadily since Gillette told him. (Norrington suspected the good lieutenant had been, too) 

That man defied…well, Norrington started out with the word 'understanding' in mind, but he'd come to the conclusion that Rochefort really defied everything. He was a moody and unfriendly man that could turn into the charming gentleman at the drop of a hat. He drove Norrington to near madness, while the cat he'd 'adopted' (Gillette thought the cat had adopted him, privately Norrington agreed) took to him, and could often be seen trying to eat his toes through his boots in quiet moments. (That he was jealous of this said something about him, Norrington was sure, and he was equally sure he didn't want to know what) 

His clothes didn't fit the smaller man quite right, which provided vague amusement, as Rochefort was forever adjusting sleeves, and glaring at him for it, as if it were his fault they were different sizes. 

"Are Englishmen not taught that staring is rude?" Rochefort drawled, not bothering to look up from where he was reading -- thieving both Norrington's favorite seat _and_ evening pleasure read, not to mention acting as though he owned the study. 

"I was not staring," he replied with dignity. "I was distracted. Would you be so kind as to pass me that book?" 

"This book?" Rochefort raised an eyebrow -- _arched_, really -- and waved his reading material in Norrington's general direction. 

"No, the one on the table." _Yes,_ he thought, _actually, I would like my damn book back. But I suppose one of us has to be the gentleman._

"Ah. Of course." 

They read in more or less comfortable silence, until Rochefort declared he was going to bed (and Norrington recalled he wasn't alone in the room). 

Norrington mouthed 'traitor' at the fluffy mass named Liza, who was watching him with vague amusement over the other man's retreating back. 


	2. God, I'm so bored

If you really can't remember, go back and have a look at the disclaimer in chapter one. I shan't remind you twice. 

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Author's Note: 

Oh! I forgot to mention in chapter one, for those of you reading who aren't from the NDL and don't already know a good portion of what this story is about -- it's going to be _slash_. Rochefort and Norrington slash. Nothing graphic, dears, but if that sort of thing offends your delicate sensibilities, I believe the 'back' button is in _that_ direction. Have a nice day. 

Oh, and there's a line Rochefort says that you may find familiar. That's deliberate. 

The chapter title is a line Michael Wincott says in _"The Count Of Monte Cristo"_, as Dorleac. 

(All shall worship Michael Wincott, the ev0l sex on two legs)

…also, this is not as funny as the first chapter. It gets all serious. Just so you know. 

***

An Exercise In International Relations

Chapter Two: "God, I'm so bored." 

In which Rochefort pisses people off. 

***

Gautier Rochefort was _bored_. 

He had explored the house thoroughly. He had read a few of the more interesting books _backwards_. He had actually sat down with a ball of yarn he'd pilfered from one of the maids and _played with the cat_. (Which, quite honestly, would do nothing for his reputation if it ever got out) 

However…

He had heard the most interesting of rumors about young Mr Turner, regarding his skill with a blade -- making or wielding. He also heard that the blacksmith had 'stolen away' the good Commodore's bride-to-be, Miss Elizabeth Swann, now Mrs Turner. That part didn't really concern him, though he did file it away in case the knowledge came in handy. 

Turner, it appeared, was quite the opponent. He had focus, and all the skill he was famed for. The boy had a talent he hadn't struck in years. He was actually a _challenge_, Rochefort was somewhat surprised to discover. 

He was also aware they'd gained an audience, but he couldn't say he cared. This was highly enjoyable, and at the very least relieved the boredom. 

*

"Sir?" Gillette cleared his throat. 

Norrington didn't look up from the report. "Yes, Gillette?" 

"I think you may want to see this, sir." 

*

__

He's not fighting; he's dancing, Norrington observed as he watched. That was the difference between Rochefort and Turner -- the former was treating it as a game, whereas the latter took everything entirely too seriously, including this. Rochefort looked like he was having a brilliant time of it, and played to the crowd, pausing theatrically every so often to wave at a variety of pretty young ladies. 

"Hmmm…non." It was uncertain as to what Rochefort was talking about…right up until he calmly tripped Turner and touched the point of his sword oh-so-lightly to his throat. "I win." 

"That wasn't fair!" 

"What world are you living in, boy? There is no such thing as fair. Merely what you can or cannot do, and what you will or will not do." Rochefort offered him a hand up -- he took it, clearly with reluctance. 

"And what will you do, Mr Rochefort?" Turner asked, suspiciously. 

"What won't I do, Monsieur Turner, is a much better question." Rochefort's smile didn't reach his eyes, and Turner's eyes were drawn to where he still toyed with his sword. 

Norrington agreed, silently. And wondered. 

***

"Was that display truly necessary?" 

Rochefort glanced up from the book he was reading, vague amusement lighting his eyes. "I merely did what the entire town thinks you are too good of a man to want done." He tilted his head, examining Norrington. "Or perhaps you truly are that good of a man. An intriguing thought." He considered it a moment, then shrugged. "In any case, I was bored. The boy learned a valuable lesson." 

"What? That Frenchmen cheat?" Norrington spat. 

Rochefort laughed -- it was rather infuriating. "That was unworthy of you, mon ami." 

"I am no friend of yours." 

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. He learned not to tangle with the unknown…not to allow overconfidence to best him…not to trust that all men will follow the rules as you and he do." 

Norrington thought of Sparrow, and shook his head. "Oh, I think he learned that already." 

"Then I reminded him, and it was a timely reminder. I could have killed that _child_ out there, and he never would have even understood how it happened." 

"You underestimate him." 

"Perhaps. Perhaps not." Rochefort shut the book with a decisive snap. "Step with care, Norrington. None see so clear as the outsider." 

In her corner, Liza watched her pets bicker. Her new pet was very different to her old pet, and spent much more time with her. She liked him. Her old pet, though, she loved him, too. 

She hoped her boys wouldn't bicker too long. They had lots of sharp things, and blood got everywhere. 

Besides. Her new pet was already broken, he could only see half the world, she didn't need _two_ broken pets. 

Liza thought humans were very silly sometimes. 


	3. Such Pretty Kittens

Disclaimer is in chapter one. 

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Author's Note: 

I'll just say now…I have no idea why I wrote anything from the cat's perspective. I just do weird things sometimes. But I had fun with it, so Liza's views of things -- unique, and often completely wrong -- will probably show up fairly often. At least once a chapter, probably. 

Thank you kindly to everyone who reviewed, of course! I 3 you all. 

Bwah. Not sure about the 'smart match' quote, but that's the way I remember it, and enough people have said it that I wouldn't be surprised if it came up again in gossip later, hence Rochefort's having heard it bandied about. And promptly using it. 

Yes, he's finally being a right bastard. Admittedly he's not bothering with things like 'subtlety', but he's only playing, so it's not as though he's all that worried. 

***

An Exercise In International Relations

Chapter Three: Such Pretty Kittens

In which Liza misunderstands the situation completely, and Rochefort is _mean_. 

*** 

Dinner with the Turners turned out to be painfully awkward. He had intended it as a conciliatory gesture -- 'yes, I know he's a prat, but we all have our little ways', and 'no, Turner, I don't hate you for stealing the woman I love' -- but Rochefort appeared to be delighting in making everyone feel as uncomfortable as he possibly could manage. 

"If a man stole _my_ intended, I doubt I would be inviting him to dinner in my home," he said, very, very quietly -- but loud enough that everybody heard him. Norrington stared straight ahead, jaw clenched. Turner looked indignant. Elizabeth looked as though she'd like the ground to open up and swallow her. 

"Mr Rochefort--" Turner began, but was hastily cut off by his wife. 

"Will, would you please pass me the salt?" 

"Passing up a _smart match_ for a _blacksmith_…" Rochefort continued in that soft, 'tsk, tsk' sort of a tone. 

"A smart match and a marriage for love are two different things!" Elizabeth flared. Evidently her restraint did not extend to herself. 

Rochefort chuckled, noted the pained expression on Norrington's face, and let the meal continue in silence. 

***

"Your little swan doesn't like me very much." _Smart girl._

Norrington glanced over. "Mrs Turner?" 

"Mmmm. I do not see why you wanted to marry her. She is pretty enough, I suppose…" Rochefort tilted his head thoughtfully. "Willfully blind, though." 

"To?" 

"You. She doesn't see, does she? She assumes you thought her a 'smart match'…at least, that's all she thought of it. Or am I remember her words wrong? You were nothing in the face of 'true love'…" 

"You were _very_ rude." Norrington stated, a slight narrowing of the eyes suggesting it wouldn't be a wise course of action to push this. "You are _being_ very rude." 

"My manners are not the issue. You _love_ her. No…not love. Love is…not that. You _think_ you love her. It hurts the same as love, though. Doesn't it?" 

"What business is it of yours?" 

"None. Merely an amusing way to pass the time." 

Rochefort could hold his drink very, very well. Right up until he couldn't. Norrington probably would've hit him, if it weren't for the fact that in the long silence while he struggled _not_ to hit him or say something he would regret, Rochefort passed out. 

Bloody, buggering, _hell_. 

Carrying Rochefort up the stairs so he could get him into bed -- his _own_ bed, of course -- was not Norrington's idea of a pleasant way to spend an evening. 

He doubted it was _anyone's_ idea of a pleasant way to spend an evening. 

It was, however, the way he was spending his. 

Liza was sat in the bedroom doorway, watching with vague amusement. She wasn't sure what that word meant, but she was sure it wasn't very nice -- her pet didn't use it very often, and only when nobody could hear him. Her new pet was sleeping -- and he positively _reeked_ of that awful stuff he kept drinking. 

Hang on a minute. 

Why was her pet taking off her other pet's clothes? 

This was very peculiar. She was under the impression that one didn't mate with one's own sex -- well, it was rather pointless, wasn't it? Then again, she mused further; they would have very pretty kittens. Maybe they'd found a way around it? 

Oh. Her pet was leaving. 

She was a little disappointed. She'd gotten herself all looking forward to little ones. 

Sometimes life just isn't _fair_. 

***

Porthos, as far as Aramis could tell, was cheerfully ignoring anything that suggested even remotely that this wasn't a good idea. Aramis didn't know Porthos's cousin, Armand Gillette, but he did know that the fact that the idea of Porthos visiting him sent Athos into fits of hysterical laughter was probably a _bad_ thing. 

(And kinda scary) 

"Porthos, have you ever considered perhaps…" Aramis cast about for a tactful way to put it, and failed, "perhaps he doesn't _want_ a visit?" 

"Someone not want to see me? Aramis, a man of god such as yourself should not be drinking this early in the day! I'm shocked at you. _Shocked_." 

That was really the end of _that_ conversation…

"Did you find out where Rochefort ended up?" Aramis asked, idly. 

"Somewhere in--" Porthos stopped, and began to snigger evilly. 

Aramis had a bad feeling about this. 

***

Author's Note: 

Anyone fearing m-preg after Liza's little moment of confusion, don't worry. That's just the cat not quite grasping it. 

Also, there's your Aramis. I wasn't going to bring them in yet…but happy now? 

Bwahahahahaha. 


	4. I told you I was famous

Disclaimer in chapter one. Last reminder, people!

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Author's Note: 

Musey…what about those oh-so-intriguing Locksburne bunnies you were having? What happened to them? (Hmmm, Locksburne, sounds kinda naughty) And I'm still determined to get that Viggott off you. And the banner! The Michael!Snape banner!

[cough, remembers that the Author's Note is probably not the place for this] 

Moving right along, people…

The quote for the chapter title is from _Three Musketeers_, said by Porthos. 

***

An Exercise In International Relations (in case you'd forgotten the title, despite my reminding you every chapter)

Chapter Four: "I told you I was famous." 

In which Will and Elizabeth Turner attempt to celebrate their anniversary, and are interrupted by the arrival of Porthos and Aramis. 

*** 

Norrington hadn't said a word to Rochefort since the near-infamous dinner with the Turners. Rochefort hadn't asked why he woke up in his bed, 

undressed and tidily tucked in. 

Oh, they'd said a few words to each other -- "Hello," "Good evening," "Get out of my chair", that sort of thing. No real conversation. 

Rochefort was getting bored again. And this time he didn't think Turner was going to let him near with a sword (more's the pity, the little sod). 

So when an invitation to the Turners' first anniversary celebration showed up for Norrington, Rochefort chose that moment to pounce. 

Not literally. Although it was sincerely tempting. For all his irritating 'I Am An Upstanding Gentleman' nonsense, Norrington was quite an attractive man, and Rochefort, while lacking one eye, was far from blind. 

"It says 'Commodore James Norrington and guest'," he argued, "I'm your guest. It's settled." 

"I'm _quite_ sure they didn't mean that!" 

"Do you have anyone else to take?" he raised an eyebrow. "I assume by your silence you mean 'no'. It's not as though I've anything else to do." 

"I hardly think they will want you there." One of the various signs of James Norrington losing his temper: Lack of tact. 

"If I care, you'll be the first to know, I assure you."

__

I win, Rochefort thought, with a self-satisfied little smirk on his face. 

He was going to come to regret that. 

*** 

Porthos and Aramis finally tracked Gillette down to a 'little shindig' the Governor was holding for his daughter and her husband. The bad feeling Aramis had? Getting worse. 

"Porthos, really…" 

Gillette looked mortified. Rochefort looked murderous, or at least inclined to drink a lot. (This was more or less his usual expression, as far as Norrington could tell, but he thought it was a little more severe this time) 

He followed their gaze to where a pair of strange men had entered -- one rather flamboyantly flirting with any woman who came past (much like Rochefort, although he was subtler, and this man did it far less skillfully. Not that Norrington pondered Rochefort's skills of flirtation of course). The second looked as though he'd rather be anywhere but there, up to and including his own grave. 

"I take it you know them?" he murmured, as Gillette strode forward to head them off. 

"Porthos and Aramis." It was very nearly a snarl. 

__

Oh, dear. "I see." 

"I'm debating whether or not it would be wise to get them out of here as fast as possible, or let them ruin your little friends' party." 

__

Well. At least he's honest. After a fashion. From time to time. Norrington wasn't entirely sure how to respond to that. 

They didn't have much long to ponder, as Gillette was coming back, with a 'why do I even bother' look on his face, the two musketeers in tow. 

"If it isn't my favorite traitor!" Porthos exclaimed brightly. "How's the eye?" 

Aramis gave Norrington and Gillette an apologetic look. "I swear he's not always like this." 

"Speaking as family, on the contrary, _yes he is_." Gillette rolled his eyes heavenward. "Why _me_?" 

"Because I _love_ you, cousin!" 

Rochefort, who was about to say something particularly unpleasant, was cut off. Porthos was gaping. "Dear God, Rochefort, are you wearing…_white_?" 

The shirt he was wearing was, in fact, white. Norrington did not own any black shirts, and Rochefort had only had the one outfit with him when he arrived, on account of being kidnapped. "Not one single solitary _word_." 

Aramis forced the smile down. "We're being terribly rude--" 

There was a perfectly timed snort from both Rochefort and Gillette. 

"--so I'll introduce us now. I'm Aramis, and this is Porthos…of course, Lt. Gillette and Rochefort already know Porthos, and Rochefort knows me…in any case." He offered his hand to Norrington, who shook it, albeit somewhat warily. 

"Commodore Norrington, it's a pleasure to meet you." 

There was an awkward silence. 

But not for long. "I need a drink," Rochefort announced. 

Porthos introduced himself to the happy couple. Aramis apologized for their intrusion. Rochefort and Gillette got quietly pissed in a corner. Norrington despaired. 

The Turners were just plain _confused_. As was pretty much everybody else who met Porthos. 

As far as _he_ was concerned, it was an absolute success!

On the bright side, Aramis perfected his 'long suffering sigh', and everybody learned that Lt. Armand Gillette had the most _adorable_ snore. 

*** 

This was the second time Norrington had found himself carting Rochefort off to bed. At least _this_ time he was conscious enough to undress himself. (Though Norrington did stay to ensure he didn't _hurt_ himself in the process, as remaining upright appeared to be an issue) 

"I hope Porthos falls into the ocean and drowns," Rochefort muttered, fighting a losing battle with his boots. 

"So you've said." Norrington sighed, and assisted. He wouldn't do it, but the man had already taken off his shirt, and he didn't feel like putting up with the maid's giggling if he sent for her to help. 

"He called me cheese," he added, with an expression that Norrington would've called a 'pout' on anyone else. 

"I'm sorry, what?" 

"A _smelly_ kind." 

"…" 

Norrington was relieved when it appeared Rochefort had no further wish to 'chat'. 

"Goodnight, Rochefort." 

"G'night. James." 

He paused briefly in the doorway at that, but continued on his way out, not entirely sure what to make of it. 

*** 

Liza wasn't sure just what had happened. Her pet was _brooding_. She didn't like that very much, it was much nicer when he laughed and was happy. That was better. 

Her other pet was sleeping again, with the funny smell. She hoped he wouldn't be ill in the morning, like last time, because that had been her favorite basket-blanket that he was ill all over. 

She clambered ungraciously into her pet's lap, and hoped he would feel better soon. He looked very…what was that funny word…pensive. That's right, he looked _pensive_. 

(Her other pet probably would've had another word for it, but he was in a very bad mood lately. Except with her. He was always perfectly lovely to her. And cuddly. He didn't look very cuddly, but he was.) 

Hey!

Maybe her pet just needed a cuddle. 

Her other pet was good at cuddling. 

There, now. If only they'd just listen to her, then everything would be sorted out. 

Liza was so clever sometimes. 


	5. New Lows

Author's Note:

Well, uh…this chapter I'm really quite nervous about. I let Kat talk me into doing it, everybody blame her if you don't think it works!

An Exercise In International Relations

Chapter Five: New Lows

In which Jack Sparrow makes life a little more complicated for everybody, and there's a stowaway.

"Morning, Rochefort!" Porthos was, as always, irritatingly cheerful. Offensively so, even.

So it hadn't been a horrible, alcohol induced nightmare. Oh happy day. "Go and die," he suggested kindly.

"Glad to see some things don't change." Porthos sat down across from him, smirking gleefully. It was definitely a 'gleeful' smirk.

"What are you _doing_ here?" More to the point, why couldn't he be somewhere else?

"Here in Port Royal? Well--"

"I know that much. Why are you _here_?"

"Ah, you mean here in this house."

"Yes, _and_?"

"And what?"

Rochefort counted backwards from ten in French, and then again in English, silently. Then, "Why are you here, in this house?"

"Dear cousin Armand had to see your Commodore. I thought I might drop by while he was at it," Porthos said amiably, clearly knowing exactly the effect his unwanted presence was having and quite enjoying it. "So this is your new lover, then, Cyclops?" Rochefort's preferences had become excruciatingly obvious right about the same time Aramis's little 'crisis of faith' did. Porthos tended not to think too deeply on that.

Rochefort snorted. "Hardly." _And shut up before you get me hanged,_ he added mentally. That part he didn't say aloud, because no doubt Porthos would 'innocently' tell anyone who would hold still long enough if he told him _not_ to.

Porthos waggled a finger at him. "Don't play the innocent with _me_, Monsieur Rochefort, I know you entirely too well."

"I think _not_."

"All right, _Aramis_ knows you entirely too well. And I'm just taking advantage of an opportunity to mock you."

"Porthos? I'm willing to risk the noose if I get to run you through first."

The Musketeer grinned impudently, poked his tongue out, and then dove out of the study before Rochefort could hit him.

Will's expression was pensive -- sometimes Elizabeth thought he only had those few expressions, 'puzzled', 'pensive', 'panicky' and 'preposterously delighted'. "This isn't good."

Well, at least he had a decent grasp of the obvious. Oh, she did love Will, but he could be a little…dense, from time to time.

God knew it took him long enough to work out how _she_ felt.

"Of course it isn't good!" she threw her hands in the air dramatically. "Can you imagine what'll happen if Jack meets Lieutenant Gillette's cousin?"

That clearly hadn't occurred to him. "Oh…oh…"

"Oh, dear." She finished, pouting. "We were going to go and visit _him_ on our trip! This is completely absurd. And it wouldn't be a problem if he'd just do as he's told."

Will gave her a Look that reminded her of the absurdity of her last statement. Sometimes he wasn't as thick as all that.

"It can't be all that bad…"

Then again, sometimes he was.

"…and then I built a raft using two sea-turtles and the hair from my back…"

"…these boots were a gift to me from the tsarina of Tokyo…"

What happens when two pirates (well, one pirate and one 'famous' Musketeer) get together?

They attempt to drink each other under the table, that's what happens.

"So, whassis about Norr…Norring…Norre…that bugger and your mate?"

"He's no' my mate," Porthos slurred, shaking his head. "He's Aramis's--" he frowned, pensively, then shrugged back into the warm, alcoholic glow. "He's stayin' with the Commodore, on account of being ki'napped and stuck here."

"And he's pullin' the stick out me good mate the Commodore's arse?"

"Dun' wanna know what he plans on replacin' it with."

"Gotta meet this fellow, 'en."

There was a vague part of Porthos that thought perhaps this wouldn't be such a great idea, but it was beaten into submission by the fact he was drunk and bored -- and just about anything was going to sound like a good idea right about then.

Naturally, they weren't the only ones who had been drinking. Gautier Rochefort was enjoying a mildly alcoholic haze, half-curled in a chair in the study. When someone knocked on the door downstairs, he stumbled -- just a little, he was trying for self-control and almost succeeding -- down, and opened the door to find Porthos and a rather disreputable looking (if absurdly attractive) man.

"You didn' say he was all…" the man waved his hands about vaguely, "…bloody…walking sex…"

"I _beg_ your pardon?"

"Bloody right!" the man leered.

"'Ello, Gautier," Porthos said cheerfully. "This is Jack. Jack, this is Gautier Rochefort."

"Thassa very pretty name," 'Jack' wandered in, draping an arm around Rochefort's shoulders.

Jack…Jack…Jack Sparrow? That was a name Rochefort had heard…did the man not realise he was standing in _Commodore James Norrington's_ home? And that it was possibly the stupidest thing he could do?

Given his inebriated state -- Rochefort ignored the hypocrisy -- probably not.

Why should he enlighten him?

"Yours isn't."

Jack sniffed at him. "Y'smell like whiskey. Should try rum. Much be'er."

"I'll keep that in mind, mon ami." He steered them upstairs into the study, deciding this could be good for some amusement, or possibly blackmail.

Porthos passed out fairly quickly. However, 'Jack' held his booze with much more grace -- well… -- and hung on for most of the night.

The last thing Rochefort remembered was being told how pretty his eye was…

Norrington blinked. And then blinked again. Once he pinched himself _and_ blinked. The apparition was not going away. 'Captain' Jack Sparrow was sitting in his dining room.

Stark bollocking naked.

"WHAT THE BLOODY _HELL_ IS GOING ON?"

Rochefort stumbled down the stairs, tugging his shirt on as he went. Things became rapidly clearer to Norrington just what had been going on under _his_ roof.

The Frenchman took one look at Jack and his expression clearly stated he didn't remember a thing, but was fairly sure he was going to regret it.

"I repeat," Norrington said, in a quieter, more dangerous voice, "what the hell is going on?"

Jack stood up, smiling brightly. "I think I'll just be taking my leave now--lovely to meet you, Gautier, must remember to thank Porthos!"

"Sit down."

Jack sat. Even he knew when not to argue, and that was a 'do not argue' voice. He leered absently at Rochefort's bared chest, more out of habit than anything else. "Calm down, Jamie, I'm not stealing your little friend away…looks of him, 'e doesn't even remember anyway. So I'll just be on my way, savvy?"

"No, Mr Sparrow, I do _not_ 'savvy'. Why are you in Port Royal and _why_ did you think I would not find you _in my house_?"

Rochefort buttoned up his shirt as they spoke, sighing. This was not good. This was _definitely_ not good. Norrington looked furious -- jealous, maybe? No, don't be a fool -- and if he ended up swinging from the gallows because of this damn pirate…

"Seemed like a good idea at the time?"

"Get out. Get _out_."

Rochefort frowned. No, that wasn't right. Why wasn't Ja--Norrington arresting him? Not that he _wanted_ anyone to get arrested (except possibly Porthos), but this wasn't going according to the script. This wasn't right, Norrington didn't act like this. He stayed quiet, though. For now. Strategic silence.

"Right you are. Mind if I get my clothes first?"

"Just get out, Sparrow."

He sounded more tired than anything else. Rochefort watched Jack go upstairs, then looked back over at him. "James--"

"You have until sunset to get out of my house. I do not care where you go."

"As you say, Commodore." If he didn't know any better, he'd say Norrington was _jealous_. He was acting exactly as Ara--

Not going there.

"Good."

Oh, hell. He had sunk to new lows. Gillette had no room for him, harboring Porthos and Aramis, and Groves simply didn't like him. Therefore, he was left going to the only other people he knew in this godforsaken, miserable place.

That's right.

"Hello, Madame Turner."

"Good evening, Mr Rochefort," she looked a little puzzled. "To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?"

He coughed, and began his request, not noticing the faint miaowing coming from his case.

Fear not, gentle readers, this isn't about to turn into Jack/Gautier. He's a cameo, not a star.


	6. Undead Pirates? Pah! Norrington's Bloody...

Author's Note:

Don't worry, this isn't going to turn into _Rochefort Does Port Royal_ -- if only because Will Turner is just not attractive enough for that.

Poor, poor Porthos, our token straight man.

---

An Exercise In International Relations

Chapter Six: Undead Pirates? Pah! Norrington's bloody cat!

In which Jack learns his lesson (not really), Elizabeth learns the meaning of pain, and Rochefort demonstrates again his penchant for alcoholism, this time joined by a furry feline friend.

---

Elizabeth wasn't sure about this. Rochefort had informed her that he could no longer reside with the Commodore, went on to add that it was all Jack's fault (though he called him all sorts of other things and it took her a while to work out who he was talking about), and refused to tell her exactly what had happened. Gillette, apparently, had no room for his countryman, given that he was playing host to Porthos and Aramis -- she didn't much care for Porthos, but Aramis was a very nice man.

In the end, she let him stay -- running roughshod over Will's loud objections -- because honestly, she couldn't leave him without a place to sleep, even if he was one of the most unpleasant men she had ever come across.

She wondered how someone quite so attractive could be _so_ annoying.

(Groves and Gillette had been wondering that about her for years.)

They'd discovered, as she was directing him to the guestroom, that Norrington's cat -- Liza -- had stowed away in his case. The cat didn't seem to like her any more than he did, but completely refused to be returned home, and every time they tried it, she hissed and clawed and hid under the bed.

Elizabeth gave up before Rochefort did, mostly due to the fact she'd borne the brunt of the feline assault. Undead pirates? Pah! Norrington's bloody _cat_!

Thankfully, Rochefort was fast asleep -- well, unconscious, anyway. The maid had been in to take away the bottle -- when Jack arrived. Elizabeth fully intended to give him a piece of her mind he wouldn't forget in a hurry for saddling her with this unfortunate houseguest. Oooh, when she was through with him…

---

"Commodore?"

Norrington looked up -- oh yes, Aramis, one of those Musketeer fellows that Rochefort didn't particularly like. Although he'd got the impression that Aramis was 'tolerable', which was probably as close to liking anyone as Rochefort could actually get.

Unless of course they were Jack bloody Sparrow. (Or his cat, whom Rochefort had _stolen_, but that was not currently the issue at hand)

Not that he cared or that it was any of his business, of course.

Oh, bugger. He really was in trouble now.

"Come in."

"I wanted to talk to you about Gautier…?" Aramis hesitated a little as he sat down. "Rochefort, I mean."

"I know who you mean." The temperature in the room went noticeably downwards.

"I wanted to apologize on his behalf for whatever it is that he's done this time--"

Norrington almost smiled at that. Aramis sounded used to apologizing for other people.

"--because, well, he's unlikely to do it himself, but I'm sure he _is_ sorry." _Deep down. Really, really deep down. I wonder what it is he actually _did_…they mentioned something about that pir--oh, dear lord. Gautier, you idiot. And he says I'm easily swayed by a pretty face._

"Sorry that he no longer has somewhere to stay where his idiosyncrasies will be tolerated," Norrington snorted.

Well, all right. There was that, too. "I understand he's now staying with the Turners, actually."

"…would you mind repeating that, I'm quite sure I must have misheard--"

"Staying with the Turners," Aramis repeated helpfully. "Mrs Turner was very kind."

"I see."

"Ah, I believe your cat stowed away in his case…they did try to get her back to you, but she refused to be moved."

"Did she."

"Mrs Turner bears the battle scars to prove it."

Evidently Liza had been picking up bad habits from a certain one-eyed pillock. "I see."

"Well. Gautier refused to talk about it…I was wondering if you could tell me what is going on? I gathered it involved one Jack Sparrow, but other than that…"

"I hardly see that it is my place to inform you of your friend's…activities."

And there we have it. "He's not exactly my friend," Aramis said mildly. "And I was merely wondering, as it seems to be a sore point with the both of you."

"Then what is he, if not your friend, that you would come here to defend him?"

"We _were_ friends." Well, they were _friendly_, that was for sure. "He doesn't have an abundance of them…" And when they weren't on opposite sides of a threatening civil war, they still got on quite well. Though it helped if Rochefort wasn't strictly sober, because he was hell to deal with when he was.

"I can see why."

"So can anyone else who's ever spent longer than about ten minutes with him," Aramis chuckled weakly.

Norrington permitted him the barest smile. Rochefort had what Groves disdainfully referred to as a 'hedgehog-esque attitude to life'. When he wasn't playing the fool for pretty ladies he evidently had no interest in. "Was there any other purpose in this visit?"

"Er…I was rather hoping this could be sorted out."

"It is sorted. Good day."

---

Jack sat quietly with a very repentant expression on his face, hoping like hell he looked sufficiently chastised. Elizabeth was beginning to repeat herself, and Will wasn't helping at _all_. Worse luck, the object of his dubious affections -- at least, the other night anyway -- was sleeping peacefully upstairs, and he had a feeling he'd been even more for it if _he_ woke up.

Though, he thought mutinously, the pretty little fellow hadn't been complaining much before. If he weren't so sure Norrington would tear him limb from limb, he might…ah, best not to even think it while facing Elizabeth's wrath. He was half-sure she could read his mind by this point, and those were some thoughts he wasn't sharing with _anybody_. He wished he had any sort of artistic ability, so he could capture the beauty that is Gautier Rochefort bare-arse naked, but life was far from fair. (If life was fair, Jack reasoned, said Frenchman would be allergic to clothing. And Norrington, too. And that little Lieutenant wasn't half bad, either…)

"Are you listening to a word I'm saying? Jack? JACK!"

Oh, oops. "'Course I am. Don't ever bugger Norrington's little friend, it's bad. Won't do it again, luv, promise."

"…"

"What?"

---

Rochefort was having a bad day. He had had, apparently, fabulous sex that he couldn't remember, James--Norrington--was furious with him, _Aramis_, _Aramis_ of all people, was feeling sorry for him, he had to stay with the _Turners_, and the only person it seemed that was willing to spend any time with him without either shouting or looking at him as though he were pitiful was a _cat_.

Admittedly, Liza was better company than most people in Port Royal, but that wasn't the point. The point was…

Er.

He was sure there was a point, and it wasn't Liza.

Yes.

Cats were not in the habit of being pointy, after all.

Much too fluffy.

What was he talking about?

"We really need more alcohol," he told Liza vaguely. At two in the morning, it seemed a brilliant idea to find a little saucer and give the cat…whatever it was he'd raided from the Turners. (He forgot. And by now, it all tasted the same.) She had stumbled about tipsily with her tail in the air for a while, now she was curled up on his foot, purring in a distinctly wobbly fashion.

"He shouldn't be jealous, you know, anyway, because it's not as though he's…or we're…and I don't even _remember_ it, besides…Englishmen are insane…and you know this is all Porthos's fault…"

Liza went on purring. Rochefort fell asleep. Cutely. Because, you know. He had to have some redeeming feature.


	7. OhEr My Well

Author's Note

Yes, Musey, here is the next chapter…I am weak, and cannot resist the idea of Rochefort/Aramis…hey, whatever happened to Gisbourne/Locksley?

Also, even as I wrote this chapter it seemed a little weird to me…but I think that was the way to go.

---

An Exercise In International Relations

Chapter Seven: Oh…Er. My. Well.

In which Rochefort and Norrington talk sensibly and rationally and sort the whole mess out.

Shyeah. Right. I can't believe you fell for that.

---

Liza didn't quite understand what was going on, but she'd decided to sneak into New Pet's case so she could take care of him -- you see, Old Pet was very good at taking care of himself, so long as he got a cuddle or two, but New Pet…

Well, Liza had decided that New Pet _needed_ her.

But she was certain that neither she, nor New Pet, needed that funny stuff they had last night. Her head felt _really_ weird.

Old Pet would be very disappointed. She hoped he wouldn't be _too_ angry at him for clawing at the screechy thing that wanted to make her go away. She knew he'd understand that she was only trying to take care of her pets, really.

(And besides, that banshee deserved what she got. Her New Pet said so. HAH! Oh, oww…)

---

It had taken a while to calm Elizabeth down after Jack's little…announcement, but calm down she had.

Then, of course, they had to explain to Will why she'd been so riled up, and, of course, then promptly calm _him_ down.

Jack didn't see what the problem was. Even Elizabeth grudgingly admitted the man had a certain attractiveness (Jack said 'sex on French legs', Elizabeth said 'perhaps a little handsome'), but maybe that hadn't been the best way to say it…he'd assumed they knew!)

Well. Maybe that was foolish. As if Rochefort was going to tell them.

Speak of the devil. "Morning," he said cheerfully.

"Go die." Rochefort suggested. He had placed Sparrow firmly in the same category as Porthos -- to be tolerated only when there are no other options. Considering the only other option he was interested in involved swords and lots, and _lots_ of blood, tolerating him would have to be it.

But he didn't have to be friendly.

(Jack disagreed. Rochefort had been _very_ friendly the other night. So friendly, in fact--

The author would like the keyboard back now, thank you, Jack.)

"Is that any way to greet a friend?" Jack pouted at him. "I bet you'd be a lot nicer if my name were…say…James?"

There was a blur of action, and then Jack was lying on the ground, clutching his nose. "Y'bastard!"

"I assure you, Captain, I know exactly who my father is, and he was indeed wed to my mother. Now, can you say the same?"

"…!"

"My apologies. You appear to be busy. I won't bother you."

---

Norrington came to visit. It was not one of his best ideas, but he wanted his cat back, damn it.

"Rochefort?"

Brilliant. First Madame Turner locks the liquor cabinet, and now this. Not to mention bloody Sparrow. And Porthos of all people visiting! What did I do to deserve any of this? Oh, that's right. Sparrow. "In here."

"I wish to retrieve my cat," he said, stiffly, not meeting Rochefort's steady gaze. "And return this." He put Rochefort's hat delicately on the table.

"You know," Rochefort was beginning to be morbidly amused by the situation, "You are acting entirely too much like a jilted lover. Are you _jealous_, James?"

"I most certainly am _not_!"

"You are too."

"Am not."

"Are too."

"Am not."

"Are too."

"Am n--I will not stand here and bicker with you like a child!"

"All right, then. Fine."

In the moment's that passed, Norrington had time (barely) to notice a few facts:

Gautier Rochefort's tongue was _in his mouth_.

Also, the man was _very_, _very_ warm when pressed quite that close.

And did he mention the location of said warm body's tongue?

(Which, incidentally, tasted like red wine, but given that he could see half a bottle that had probably belonged to the Turners, that wasn't surprising)

He also noticed that he wasn't stopping him.

"Oh…er. My. Well."

"There. Now, your cat is upstairs, go away."

There was a long period of silence as Rochefort returned to his book, followed by an outraged outburst.

"You can't just--!"

"Are you still here?"

Oh, that was just _it_.

Norrington stormed out, and slammed the door behind him, ruining the effect by apologizing to Elizabeth for slamming her door as she passed, looking surprised.

Gautier Rochefort was the strangest, most confusing and _infuriating_ man he'd ever met.

He was sitting in his study before he realized he'd left Liza behind.

---

"Did you see that?"

"See what?"

"Your Commodore, storming off like that."

"Yes, why? He often does that around that 'Captain' of yours."

"I know that stomp. That's 'Gautier is the most infuriating man on the face of the earth, and possibly the most bizarre as well'."

"You can tell from this distance?"

"Oh, yes."

"He looked very angry."

"Gautier is _very_ infuriating."

"Then why do you keep defending him to people?"

"Truthfully?"

"Truthfully."

"I think it annoys him."

---

Author's Note

Well…that was really, really weird. I started out with the idea in mind that Rochefort would just get irritated by everything and plant one on 'im, but that's maybe not exactly how I meant for it to turn out…I don't know. Don't hate me if you hate this chapter, it's all kinds of strange to me. And very, very short. Short and sweet? Maybe.

Teehee. Am _so_ evil.


	8. Elizabeth's Brilliant Idea

[Disclaimer: Me no own, etc, etc.]

Author's Note:

Elizabeth Swann-Turner, eighteenth century slasher! The idea made me laugh. (No, but seriously, she really does sound like a crazy little slash-writer in this chapter. Once I _noticed_ it, I may have…exaggerated it…just a little…)

I can't believe how much of this story I've actually managed to get written…I 333333 this story. And I'm sorry, but there's no Liza this chapter. Let's just say she's sleeping off the hangover somewhere backstage, hmm?

---

An Exercise In International Relations

Chapter Eight: Elizabeth's Brilliant Idea

In which Aramis has a Moment™, Rochefort visits Egypt, and Elizabeth decides to meddle.

Meddle a _lot_.

---

If Aramis was honest, he didn't know why he was defending Gautier to everyone. Least of all _Norrington_, who, if he was even _more_ honest, he'd been privately thinking of as 'competition'. After all, hadn't he had Gautier's affections first? Gautier still wore that little gold earring he gave him -- didn't _that_ mean anything?

But no. He defended him for the 'mistake' with the pirate -- even as he seethed inside -- and he tried to convince Norrington to sort things out and he sat there being _so_ helpful and Gautier would never, ever say thank you, so why?

Well.

Rochefort broke his heart -- that's what Porthos thought. Athos, ever observant and sensitive, didn't have any idea what there had been anything going on. Hell, he didn't even know _Rochefort's_ preferences, and even D'Artagnan had picked up on those.

The fact of the matter was, Aramis was the one who left. He was _obliged_. They were on opposite sides of what was a hop, skip and a jump away from civil war. Rochefort was committing _treason_ against a King they'd both sworn once to protect (though Rochefort was later given the heave-ho…'conduct unbecoming of a Musketeer', it amounted to the same thing). He had never been the type of man to make the selfish choice.

He'd pretended not to notice when Rochefort started wearing _his_ gold earring…the one he thought he'd lost after leaving that final time, the one he'd been entirely too cowardly to go and look for. He'd pretended not to notice that Rochefort hadn't ever been seen without it. (Even now.)

He supposed it was about time they moved on, the both of them. He'd hardly been _celibate_ since, but he'd never really…and Rochefort, well…

Sometimes you do strange things when you're trying to prove a point to yourself.

Really.

He chuckled to himself. Rochefort would laugh if he heard all this.

---

As a matter of fact, he would probably just sneer at Aramis for being a sentimental fool and make damn sure his ear was hidden under his hair. However, he was currently dealing with several unpleasant situations. Firstly, Sparrow hadn't left yet -- yes, definitely England's answer to Porthos. Secondly, Madame Turner had (somehow -- he suspected eavesdropping) managed to figure out what had happened, and hadn't stopped berating him since (evidently, if one spent enough time around her, she 'adopted' one. This was not a state of affairs he wished to encourage). Thirdly, he had run out of wine. And everything else alcoholic that Madame Turner hadn't managed to get locked away in the master bedroom.

Oh…

And there was the Norrington thing, too. Norrington. _James_ Norrington. Commodore James Norrington. With whom he'd probably just blown sky-high any chances he may or may not have in fact had.

Which was a pity, because James was very pretty.

Not that Rochefort was developing _feelings_ of any kind.

The man may well have been attractive -- and he was -- but he was also laced straighter than a corset (and Rochefort had intimate knowledge of more than a few of those), and more uptight, too. He was irritatingly _honest_ and _straightforward_ to a fault, he thought of others; he was a gentle, genuinely _good_ man.

And lord knew Rochefort was none of those things.

And never fell for anyone who was, either.

Of course.

At this point, the author emphatically does _not_ mention Aramis.

---

Norrington wasn't sure what he was supposed to do now.

He wasn't sure how he was supposed to _feel_ now, let alone 'think' or 'do'.

"Sir?"

Ah, Gillette. He could always be relied upon to be there in a crisis. "Enter, Lieutenant."

"I thought perhaps you might appreciate some company."

"Watching from the window _again_, Armand?"

"In my defense, I was merely pointing out the lovely view to Aramis."

"For God's sake!"

"James…"

"I swear I will be driven _mad_ between the lot of you!"

Gillette chuckled, and sat down. "Porthos sends his regards, and his apologies."

"_He's_ apologizing? What did _he_ do?" The question was asked with a certain resigned 'well, just when I thought it couldn't get any worse' air.

"He feels responsible, and as much as he is enjoying Rochefort's discomfort -- and believe me, he is -- he does feel somewhat guilty for your part in it."

"How is he responsible, precisely? I was under the impression--"

"Well, how do you think they _met_ in the first place?"

"Oh, brilliant. Your cousin is consorting with pirates, too, now."

I rather thought that was your Rochefort's arena, personally, he carefully didn't say. There was, after all, such a thing as going too far. "Indeed. Apparently he is 'famous'. I chose -- wisely, I think -- not to ask."

"A wise choice indeed," Norrington permitted a brief smile. "You look as though you want to ask something."

"I do, but I'm not entirely sure how it'd be received."

"That sounds ominous."

"Only a little. You looked very upset when you left the Turners'. If I may be so bold as to ask--"

"You may. You will, anyway."

Gillette continued as if he hadn't been interrupted, "--what happened?"

Norrington gave him a steady, evaluating gaze. If he said it out loud, that made it somehow…more real. Gillette was his most trusted friend but… "He kissed me." He said flatly.

"And?"

"Told me to get out."

Gillette winced sympathetically.

---

Sometimes, Elizabeth really didn't understand men.

Most of the time, actually. She was terribly fond of them, though. Her Will -- a little dense, but utterly devoted to her. Totally wrapped around her little finger, which always made it easy to get what she wanted. Jack could usually be led by a strategic pout or smile…James was much the same, though he appeared to be coming out from underneath her thumb. Her father would _never_ be anything _but_ under her thumb.

And her latest acquisition! Gautier Rochefort. Now he was simply _impossible_. She didn't particularly like him to begin with, but he did rather grow on one. Much like fungus. Very unfriendly, handsome fungus.

…perhaps that was stretching the metaphor a little.

But anyway.

Yes, he was an acquired taste. He seemed to chafe a little under her motherly thumb, but she was _quite_ determined, and when Elizabeth Turner wanted something, she got it. (Exhibit A, William Turner) Will didn't like him, but that was only to be expected, given how he'd been bested -- and so _publicly_, too.

She had been so _sure_ things would be sorted out when James came to visit, but no! Honestly, she'd never seen two people quite so _blind_ to one another. (Of course, she hadn't seen it until Jack pointed out, but that was hardly the point)

"Meddling _again_?"

"Only a little bit."

"They're going to be furious with you," Will predicted, watching her write.

"They'll get over it," she replied dismissively. "They'll be _grateful_ when all's said and done. You just see."

"If you say so," he looked dubious.

"Oh, Will," she sighed, "You just don't understand _romance_."

"What is romantic about two persnickety men that just make each other angry?"

"They belong together," she said firmly. _And they're so pretty!_

"You haven't exactly been on Rochefort's side before now," he observed.

"Well, now I _am_." Fickle. "True love just needs a guiding hand."

"Yours," he surmised.

"See? I knew you'd see it my way!"

---

Author's Note

If you want to know what she's up to, you'll just have to wait and see.

But Will's right (for once) -- they're going to be _furious_.

Oh, Elizabeth. I may not like her particularly much, but I'm beginning to like her as I've got her in here…


	9. Please Tell Us, Elizabeth

[Disclaimer: I suspect neither Disney nor Dumas would ever want to be associated with this.]

Author's Note

Eheheheheh…am SO evil.

---

An Exercise In International Relations

Chapter Nine: Please Tell Us, Elizabeth

In which Elizabeth's brilliant plan is put into play, and Rochefort announces he's not going to be party to no damn soppy romance fic.

---

Aramis,

I'm plotting. It's for James and Gautier -- want to come and play? We'll expect you for dinner tomorrow night. Gautier usually takes a long walk about then; we'll have plenty of time.

Elizabeth Turner

---

Gillette,

Please accept this humble invitation to dinner tomorrow night.

You know James better than we do; we need your help.

Besides, you have the keys to the cells.

We'll be expecting you.

E. Turner

---

Elizabeth was bouncing with anticipation when the two men arrived -- just as she'd expected, the rather cryptic note had brought Gillette, and Aramis had already told her that she could call on him whenever she wished.

"I expect you're wondering what I'm doing," she said, once Rochefort was out of the house -- she watched from the window as he left, much to their collective amusement.

Will wondered why on earth he'd married such a dramatic woman, and then sighed and remembered. Oh yes. He loved her. "Yes, Elizabeth. Please tell us, Elizabeth."

She scowled at him. "_No_ sense of romance," she grumbled under her breath. "Well, you see, I've decided that since _clearly_ they're not going to see things for themselves--"

"Elizabeth," Will started, in a warning tone of voice, aware that was the third time he'd said her name in barely a minute.

Gillette, recalling her comment about 'cells', had a sinking feeling. And the determined expression on her face suggested she would not be dissuaded. But could it really hurt that much…? She was right, if Rochefort and Norrington had their way, they'd simply glare menacingly at one each other for the rest of their lives…

"We're just going to have to lock them in together until they _sort things out_."

"And she says _I'm_ unromantic," Will mutters. "What is romantic about a jail?"

"Be quiet!"

This was going to go perfectly, or they'd die trying and Elizabeth would look beautiful in mourning black.

Perhaps it wasn't the way every girl apologized to the man whose heart she broke, but Elizabeth wasn't every girl. Besides, fair trade. A pretty young man for a pretty no-longer-young man.

---

"You're standing on my dress!"

"Quiet! He'll hear you."

"Well, if you wouldn't _stand on my dress_!"

"Oww--that was completely uncalled for!"

"Well, shh, both of you."

Elizabeth and Gillette scowled at each other, but obediently Elizabeth stood back and let the men sneak up on Norrington -- quite near the cells, luckily. They'd had a hell of a time getting Rochefort in there, and in the end, Will knocked him out and carried him in himself.

When the dust cleared, and Norrington was locked in with Rochefort, Elizabeth dusted off her hands, smoothed her skirt, and looked entirely too smug. "I _told_ you it wouldn't be that hard," she said happily.

"Says you," Will muttered. Given that she didn't actually have to do much other than stand around and tell them, unhelpfully, what to do, he didn't see that she had room too talk.

"What in God's name is going on here?" Norrington demanded. "What is the meaning of this?"

"You two are going to sort things out right this…" Elizabeth trailed off, looking at the still-unconscious Rochefort. But she rallied impressively. "You two are going to sort things out just as soon as he wakes up! And I shan't let you out until you do."

To his chagrin, Elizabeth appeared to be the one holding the keys. Now, Gillette he could've convinced to let them out -- probably even Aramis or Gillette. But arguing with Elizabeth was much akin to trying to stop the tides by stamping one's foot and pouting.

Completely and utterly _pointless_.

---

Rochefort stirred, beginning to wake, a few hours after Elizabeth left (sweeping regally away, followed by her retinue of guilty schoolboys). His head hurt, and he didn't quite remember why…this wasn't where he was last he recalled…what…?

"We've been kidnapped," Norrington said dryly, somewhere to the left of him. "Apparently, Mrs Turner has decreed we cannot manage our own lives, and has locked us in here until we agree to kiss and make up."

There was a long, thoughtful silence as Rochefort assimilated this information -- quite a lot to take in after just waking up, granted.

"On the whole," he said finally, "I believe unconsciousness was preferable."

They didn't speak much for a while after that.

Rochefort paced. He tried the lock -- pointless, Norrington had tried it earlier, knowing it would be a fruitless effort, but telling him that would've been equally so. He peered out the little window. He kicked the wall a few times. He looked everywhere _but_ at Norrington and refused to speak to him, either. He took his hat off. He glared menacingly at the token guard -- whom he was also above speaking to.

Norrington had to give him credit; he did look rather impressive, pacing up and down like a caged, wild animal, chafing against unnatural captivity…

Oh, for God's sake. He never spouted poetry for a woman; he'd be damned if he'd do it for a man.

Whom he had no interest in, in any case, thank you **very** much, Mrs Turner.

Rochefort had finally sat down again, and was looking…all right, in his general direction was as close as he could go, but it'd do. "Gautier?"

"Awfully familiar, aren't we?"

"Considering where you put that tongue you're speaking to me with, I don't see why not." Norrington replied evenly.

"Ah, and the claws come back. I was wondering when that would happen. _James_." Rochefort chuckled derisively -- this, Norrington ignored, it didn't mean anything.

"I have a question."

"Only one? I'm disappointed in you."

"How did you lose your eye?"

Something in the sudden stillness in the room told Norrington that had been _exactly_ the wrong thing to say.

"I was in the process of betraying King and country. Apparently, that doesn't go down well with Musketeers," he said, each word of the otherwise flippant statement spoken very deliberately.

"You committed treason?" he knew Rochefort was no saint, but…treason?

"Twice," the Frenchman shrugged, leaning back against the wall. "Aramis can tell you, he was there for both."

"Aramis is such a loyal man…why would he defend you?" The idea that Rochefort could so casually betray his King, speak of it as if it were nothing…it was incomprehensible. He couldn't quite wrap his mind around it. "Now, I mean."

"Aramis has always found it easier to forgive m--forgive than others." Rochefort replied, careful with his words.

I'll just bet he has. "You…you…"

"Are everything you fight against, only better dressed? Now do you see why I told you to leave?"

That brought him up short. "You--"

"--can finish a sentence, which is more than I can say for _you_. I told you to leave because I've seen this play before, James, and I never much cared for the ending. You're a good man. I'm not. More to the point, I don't _care_ that I'm not. I don't want 'redemption'. I don't even want absolution. Any sins I have committed…they are _my_ sins. I am not ashamed of myself. You, James -- you don't want me. This man, this man that I am, this is not who you need." Rochefort offered him a wry smile. "I know we should really have a long and meaningful discussion of our respective histories first, but I don't see the point. That's what needed to be said. I've said it. Mrs Turner wants romance. She wants us to learn to _understand_ each other. I understand you well enough, James; I lived with you long enough. She wants us to bond and grow and _love_. Maybe you want it, too. You're both asking for something I cannot give and _will_ not offer!"

This wasn't how it was supposed to work, Norrington thought dimly. Not that he cared, but this wasn't how things worked. You weren't allowed to cut through the narrative straight to the heartbreak. It broke all the rules, it wasn't the way things worked. He _couldn't_ do that.

He just did.

---

"What's going on?" Gillette demanded. Elizabeth's slippered feet had been the quietest of them all, so she'd been designated eavesdropper. (The fact she was probably better at it than any of them _and_ more or less running the show was irrelevant)

Her expression was grim. "Gautier's being _difficult_."

"Difficult?" Aramis raised an eyebrow. "Difficult how?"

"I think he just broke James's heart, for starters."

"That's fairly difficult, yes," Will agreed, not looking up from his book. (Yes, that's right, he can read.)

"Will, you're not helping!" Elizabeth stomped her foot and glared. "Gautier's not doing what he should be doing."

"Getting down on one knee and composing sonnets, my love?"

"Stop poking fun at me."

"Yes, dear."

Gillette and Aramis exchanged a look. It said 'Never. Ever. Getting. Married.'

"More about this difficulty," Gillette interrupted them. "How?"

"Well, he more or less said he's despicable and evil and it'll end in tears so they might as well not start, also that James and I are asking things of him he can't give." Elizabeth summed up.

"That's a familiar tune," Aramis muttered, scowling.

"What do we do now, then? Let them out?"

Elizabeth looked at Gillette as if he were insane.


	10. English Lunacy

disclaimer: I don't own

Author's Note: This _bloody_ chapter has been giving me hell for months, so I do hope it's up to standard. It is _very_ short, but I decided that quality vs. quantity, quality will always win and I think I'm FINALLY getting somewhere. So there you go. I demand constructive criticism from anyone still actually reading this bollocks, because just as I finally get to the good part of the story, our prat-ly stars decide to stop cooperating. Bastards. Okay, I'll stop ranting, you can read the actual story now.

* * *

An Exercise In International Relations

Chapter Ten: English Lunacy

In which Norrington puts one over our favourite Frenchman.

* * *

Rochefort and Norrington hadn't said a word to each other since Rochefort's _charming_ little speech. To be perfectly honest, Norrington didn't know _what_ to say. He didn't know what to _feel_, let alone think. He'd thought perhaps…no. No, whatever he had thought, it had been wrong, and he knew that now. Rochefort was…

Nothing more than what he appeared to be.

He wondered, though…

"Gautier?" he winced a little, his voice seemed so _loud_ in the silence that had fallen.

"What do you want, James?" Rochefort sounded tired, devoid of emotion, simply tired. Empty, even. It wasn't pleasant to listen to.

"You said you'd 'seen this play before'. I want to know what you meant by that." He watched the other man carefully, trying to judge his reaction to the words.

"Aramis."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You want to know what I meant by that -- that is what I meant. Aramis. A lifetime ago now, perhaps. When I was foolish enough to believe that love will save you." His accent, which Norrington would never admit to enjoying, was just that little bit more pronounced.

Perhaps there was more to him than met the eye. "And what do you believe now?"

"What I _know_ is that…" He trailed off, closing his eye. "What I know is that while I could no more avoid loving Aramis than I could fall madly in love with Porthos, it would never, ever be enough. Nor will this." He waved a hand in Norrington's general direction.

"And what exactly is this?"

Rochefort stilled. "…very clever, James. I walked right into that."

"You're not answering my question."

"I have no wish to encourage your lunacy. Mrs Turner has taken care of that quite neatly."

"So your answer would encourage me, would it?"

Rochefort's lips thinned as he fell sullenly silent.

Norrington smiled faintly at him, and leaned back against the stone wall.

It was enough. For now.


End file.
